But Wenna’s eyes bore into her. She could feel it. Searching. Probing. She’d have to answer.
“He asked my father for my hand,” she said simply.
“I’m wondering if it’s you he wants or yer dowry,” Wenna mumbled.
Leastwise that’s what it sounded like. Abby lifted her chin, her brows pulling tight. “Pardon?”
The emotions on Wenna’s face pieced together like a homespun quilt. Patches of pity coloured the woman’s cheekbones. Concern basted tucks at the sides of her mouth. Yet compassion blanketed her tone as she softened her voice. “Allow me to be plain with ye, Miss Abby. Yer baronet may very well want ye. Who am I to say? But that’s not solid ground for ye to be committing the rest o’ yer life to him. A hungry lion might pursue ye with the same eagerness, but to devour, not to love.”
The needle slipped, pricking her fingertip as sharply as Wenna’s words stabbed her heart. Immediately, she pinched her thumb against the pierced flesh, stopping a drop of blood, and frowned at Wenna. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Flit, child! I’d hate to see ye throw away yer life on a man who didn’t care enough to come and get you himself. Allowing ye to traipse the countryside on yer own. Not even providing a guard to keep ye safe.”
The truth she’d been trying to ignore for so long stung the back of her eyes, and the world turned watery. Blinking, she stared at the fabric on her lap.
Footsteps padded, and an arm wrapped around her shoulder, giving her a little squeeze.
“Here be the way of it, miss. Ye say ye’re on yer way to happiness, when all along it’s been right under yer very nose. The truth is, ye are wanted, by the Creator of the stars, no less. Ye don’t have to run across the country to find love when every minute of every day it’s being offered to ye in God’s wide, open arms. Do ye know that, girl?”
Setting down her sewing, she pulled from Wenna’s touch and stood. Did the woman really think she was that much of a heathen? “Of course I know God loves me. I have been to church every Sunday of my life.”
“Ahh, but do ye know the truth of God’s love in yer heart, daughter? Have ye been in His presence, dropped to yer knees by the power o’ His love?”
Slowly, she turned and faced the woman, afraid to ask what she must—but more afraid not to. “What do you mean?”
“Ahh, child.” The ruffle of Wenna’s mobcap dipped along with her brows. “It seems ye’re setting yer expectations on earthly things, such as yer happiness with yer baronet. But ye’ll not find it there. Not in man. Not in any man. Until ye’re fully satisfied with the love God gives ye, freely and without question, ye’ll not be satisfied at all.”
Abby sucked in a breath, stunned. Was that what she’d been doing? Striving so hard to find love—first in her family and now in the man she was to marry—that she’d ignored what God had to offer? She pressed a hand to her stomach, the sick feeling beneath her touch a testament to the truth. But how to change? How to really know God’s love, as Wenna said?
“I—” She cleared her throat and dared a peek at Wenna, bracing herself for the sympathy that was sure to glisten in the woman’s eyes.
“I do not know how,” she admitted.
A huge smile brightened Wenna’s face. “Well, God be praised! Then yer one step closer.”
Abby frowned. “What do you mean?”
“It’s not by yer own strivin’ that ye’ll find God’s love. All ye have to do is ask. Our faithful God will do the rest.” Picking up Abby’s sewing, Wenna shooed her with her other hand toward the door. “Go and talk to yer Creator. I’ll finish up these breeches and mind the wee one for ye.”
She shook her head, astounded by the woman’s suggestion. “It cannot be that simple.”
Wenna’s grin widened. “If little Emma were to lift her arms to you, would ye not gather her to yer breast and hold her?”
Unbidden, Abby’s gaze drifted to the sleeping babe as the woman’s words sank in. Could it truly be that simple?
Slowly, she turned toward the door. There was only one way to find out.
Chapter Nineteen
“You shouldn’t be out here alone.”
A charge ran through Abby at the deep timbre of the captain’s voice behind her back, and her eyes shot open. Even more jarring were the last rays of daylight painting Farmer Bigby’s field a golden green. How could that be? It seemed like only minutes had passed as she’d poured out her fears, her longings, and all the hurts she’d thought were buried deep enough to never remember. But from the moment she’d whispered, “God, are You there?” time had stopped. Tears had flowed. And a peace she’d never before experienced watered, soothed, and healed the cracked soil of her soul.
Clutching the rough wooden gate, she stared out at the turnip field a moment more, the land a verdant sea of thick leaves. Nothing had changed in the time she’d been out here. Yet everything had. How could she possibly tell the captain she wasn’t alone—and never would be again?
Her lips curved into a smile, and she turned to face him, surprised to see he stood but a few paces away, with Emma riding atop his shoulders. “Do not concern yourself, Captain. I am perfectly safe.”
“No one is ever safe this side of heaven, Miss Gilbert.” His jaw hardened, tightening as if all his bones strained beneath the weight of the sentiment.
Compassion swelled in Abby’s heart. She reached toward him, as if by touch alone she might transfer some of her newly found peace and confidence in God.
But at the sudden cock of his head and narrowing of his eyes, she realized this was not a man who welcomed pity, but rather might slap her hand away. Reaching higher, she tucked in a stray strand of hair, hoping he’d think that’d been her intent all along.
Emma laughed, her sudden outburst causing several sparrows to take flight from a nearby hedge. The girl shoved Captain Thatcher’s hat brim over his eyes, and with one big swoop, he freed her from her perch on his shoulders and swung her to the ground. She clung on to his big hands, refusing to let go, and bounced on her toes.
Abby’s grin grew. “She looks as though she is ready to take her first step.” Crouching, she held out her arms. “Come, sweet one!”
The captain squatted as well, then breaking free of Emma’s grip, shot out his arms in case the child teetered one way or the other.
Emma’s eyes widened, and for a breathless eternity, she wobbled. Slowly, one leg lifted then landed, the momentum tilting her body forward. Abby leaned forward too, lest Emma fall face-first in the dirt. But the girl’s other leg jerked ahead, and in one more stilted step, Emma squealed and lunged into Abby’s arms.
“Well done, little one!” Abby laughed, nuzzling her cheek against the crown of Emma’s head, then she turned the girl around. “Try it again, dear heart. Walk to the captain.”
When Emma balanced upright, Abby let her go, stretching out her arms so that her fingertips were barely a hand span away from Captain Thatcher’s. If Emma did fall, she’d not have far to go. Once again, the child took off, her legs a bit jerky, her little hands flailing in the air. Gleeful gurgles burbled out of her mouth. The big, strong captain stood at the ready to catch her should she miss her footing.
And suddenly Abby’s eyes stung with tears. Was this not the very picture of how God had just held out His arms to her during her fledgling steps toward Him?
Emma laughed again, but with too much gusto. She veered sideways like a tightrope walker, off-balanced on one leg. Abby gasped and, in reflex, lunged ahead. But no need. The captain swept little Emma up and stood, swinging her around and chuckling.
Chuckling?
Both Abby’s brows rose. Surprisingly, laughter suited this man, erasing the sharp lines and angles that usually hardened his face. He looked years younger and entirely too attractive.
Planting his feet, the captain swung Emma back up to his shoulders and gazed down at Abby. “Soon there’ll be no containing her.” He gripped the girl’s legs tighter as she bounced against him. “You’ll have
your work cut out for you until we reach Manchester.”
She smoothed her damp palms along her skirt, focusing on his words instead of his handsome face. “A labour I gladly accept.”
His eyes glimmered with approval, or dare she hope…admiration? A sudden yearning welled in her to have this man look upon her with his full heart in his gaze, cherishing her above all other women.
She turned away, cheeks heating at such a wayward thought. Surely it had only been the angle of the sun painting him in a charitable warm glow. Nothing more.
The captain strode past her, leading the way to the main road, then paused and waited for her to catch up. As she fell into step beside him, Emma bent from her perch and shoved a chubby fist her way. Abby kissed the girl’s fingers, and Emma cooed.
The captain slid her a sideways glance. “You’ll miss Emma when she’s gone, I think.”
He couldn’t be more right. In truth, it would be harder to part with the sweet girl than it had been to say goodbye to her own family.
“I will miss her,” she admitted. “Dreadfully. Though I am not her mother, she has stolen my heart. I cannot imagine the pain the Bigbys must have felt when parting with their son, nor how happy their reunion shall be when he returns.”
All humour fled from the captain’s face, more sudden and drastic than yesterday’s storm. What on earth had she said to exact such a change? Did he harbour some secret about Emma? Emma’s mother? The Bigbys?
She dared a light touch on his sleeve. Hard muscles rippled beneath his shirt, and he glowered down at her hand. She almost pulled back, but by will alone she kept her hold, determined to be as courageous as him. “There is something you are not telling me, Captain. What is it?”
His boot sent a rock skittering, yet he said nothing.
She squeezed his arm. “Well? You should know by now, your silence will not work with me.”
A muscle jumped on his neck, and he muttered something too low for her to hear.
“A little louder, if you please.”
His face turned to her, his eyes once again lost in the ever-present shadow of his hat. “You know, with your persistence, you’d make a fine officer yourself.”
“I shall take that as a compliment, sir.” She grinned. “But I will not be put off.”
He blew out a long breath and faced forward again. For several paces, she wondered if the conversation was over before it began. Far too aware of the silence—and how warm and solid his flesh felt beneath her fingertips—she pulled back her hand.
Finally, he murmured, “All right. Since you insist, it’s about the Bigbys’ son, George. I suspect he won’t be coming home.”
She pursed her lips. How could he possibly know that? “Surely the man is not an acquaintance of yours. Is he?”
“No, but I am familiar with the ship he served on.”
An ominous undertone moved swiftly through his words, and despite the heat of the afternoon, a shiver skittered across Abby’s shoulders. She turned to him and stopped, the movement halting his steps.
“What do you know, Captain?”
Emma rested her cheek against his hat, her sweet cherub face a stark contrast to the captain’s flinty stare. “His ship—the Queen Charlotte—was taken by the Americans two years back. The captain was killed, as were many of the crew. Some may have escaped. The rest were chained as prisoners. If George hasn’t made it home by now, he isn’t coming.”
The truth knocked her as off-kilter as Emma’s earlier misstep. How awful! How horribly cruel. Even now if she closed her eyes, she could envision the man’s shaving kit, his shirt and trousers, his tin mirror shined and ready for his return. Wenna would be crushed by the weight of such a sorrow. And what of Mr. Bigby? The man not only desired but needed his son to help him on the farm. The pain of knowing George wouldn’t be back could send the old man to his deathbed.
She peered up at the captain. “But you do not know this for certain. Do you? Can you say beyond a shadow of doubt that George was killed or captured? Why could he not have been one of those who escaped?”
“I’m no stranger to war, Miss Gilbert. If he made it out of there, he’d be home by now. The chances of that man returning are little to none.” His lips pressed into a grim line. “And the Bigbys deserve to know.”
Her jaw dropped. “You would cause them great pain for something that may not be true?”
“Is it not more cruel to let them live out their days staring down the road for a son who might never come back?”
“No, it is not, for I know what that feels like. You can have no idea how empty it is to be told what you hope for is not within reach. My stepmother certainly taught me that truth well, for despite my hope of a loving relationship with her, she squelched my efforts at every turn. Worse, she belittled my attempts.” Righteous anger flared in her chest, and she lifted her chin. “So you will pardon me, Captain, when I insist that it is never cruel to live with hope, even the smallest portion. It is a weak comparison, but if someone came along and stole your hope of buying some land, farming your own fields, how would that make you feel? Hmm? Tell me.”
A shadow darkened his face, and he wheeled about so quickly, Emma swung sideways. He pulled her down to his chest, saying nothing.
Abby bit her lip. Had she pushed him too far? Then so be it. She’d rather irritate the man than have hope snatched away from the Bigbys.
She upped her pace to gain his side. “Will you at least consider what I have said?”
For a long while, he didn’t answer. Maybe he wouldn’t at all, but could she fault him? The passion she’d just let slip likely made her sound like a raving lunatic.
They rounded the last curve in the road, and as the cottage came into sight, the captain slanted her a sideways glance. “Very well. I will consider it.”
She hid a smile. Why that felt like such a victory was a mystery, but did not God work in mysterious ways? Was God even now working in the captain’s heart? Glancing up at the leafy canopy, she silently prayed.
Lord, give this man wisdom to know what, if anything, to say to the Bigbys—
Her appeal ended abruptly as the captain shoved Emma into her arms, then stepped in front of her, blocking them both.
Abby froze, clutching Emma, wanting yet fearing to raise to her toes and stare over the captain’s shoulder. What danger had he spied?
“Captain, what—?”
He spun around, jamming his finger against her lips. Without a word, he commanded her to stay put, and then he pivoted back and stalked ahead.
Every sense on high alert, Samuel’s gaze snapped from the fallen branch in the middle of the road to the tree line at the side of the road. A maze of dark trunks, thick enough to conceal an enemy, spread as far as he could see—which was a precious short distance. Even so, he scoured the ivy blanketing the ground, looking for a trail, flattened greenery, anything to hint at an entrance or escape route someone might’ve taken when putting that chunk of wood on the road. But the woodland appeared as unspoiled as the day God had called it into being. Clearly no one had trampled through this swath of undergrowth recently.
Even so, he pulled out his gun. Tree branches didn’t fall for no reason, not in the middle of the road where nothing but sky opened overhead. It surely hadn’t gotten there by itself.
Choosing his steps carefully, he advanced, his gaze bouncing between the forest on one side and the hedgerow on the other. Sparrows chattered and flitted inside the shrubbery, quivering the leaves. The topmost canopy of trees swayed in a gentle breeze. Other than that and a few squirrels scurrying about, nothing moved. He frowned. Whoever had been here was long gone now—if anyone had been. Was he looking for demons when none threatened? Could the branch simply have fallen and rolled?
Lowering to his haunches, he studied the piece of wood, as long as his arm and just as thick. One end was jagged, crumbled by rot. The other stretched out fingers of dead wood. Thunder and turf! He could’ve sworn the thing hadn’t been here when he’d passe
d by on his way to find Miss Gilbert, but maybe—just maybe—it had?
He felt sick in his gut. Perhaps he had been distracted by Emma or overly preoccupied with how to tell the Bigbys about George. Neither were a good excuse, though, and suddenly his pistol weighed heavy in his hand. What kind of captain of the horse patrol would pass by such an obvious hunk of wood without even noticing it?
Footsteps padded behind him. The rustle of a gown. The cooing of the child. Soon a question about his erratic behaviour would shoot him in the back. How was he to explain pulling a gun on nothing but an insignificant hunk of tree limb?
Angry at himself, he shoved his gun back into his belt and swiped up the branch. He was about to toss the thing aside when he froze. Something didn’t feel right. But what?
Slowly, keeping his back to the advancing woman, he turned the wood over. Three crude letters scarred the wood, formed by cutting away the ash-coloured bark to the lighter flesh beneath:
YOU
You? He narrowed his eyes. For all the effort and stealth it took to put this message in his path, that’s all it said? Or had the sender been scared off before finishing the message? His gaze drifted back to the tree line. Still, he detected nothing out of place. Whoever had delivered this curious dispatch was good at what he did, a professional, likely well paid from deep pockets.
And there were none deeper than Shankhart’s.
“What is it?”
The whispered question shivered behind him. He hefted the branch and flung it into the woods, then turned. “Nothing.” He forced a pleasant tone and a sheepish tilt to his head. “My mistake.”
Miss Gilbert pursed her lips, a small crescent dimpling her chin. Either she didn’t believe him or she inwardly condemned him to madness.
“While I appreciate how seriously you take your responsibility toward me and Emma, Captain, did you really feel it necessary to pull out your gun for naught but a fallen branch?”
The Noble Guardian Page 18
